


Where There Is Flesh

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Episode: S01E01 The Rules of the Beast, Finger Sucking, M/M, Mild Blood, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, The Rules of the Beast, Vampire Thrall, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22163395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Jonathan cuts himself on his mirror, but, this time, the Count indulges himself.
Relationships: Count Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Comments: 10
Kudos: 174





	Where There Is Flesh

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Where There Is Flesh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29136255) by [AllenTraduction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllenTraduction/pseuds/AllenTraduction)



> I started writing a very plotty story, meant to be a more involved undertaking, but it's been a shite day today, so here, have this thing instead. Yes, it's kind of filthy.

Any sole person in the world is allowed to be clumsy. Jonathan thinks of this, precisely, as he regards his reflection in the broken mirror. The notion carries over in a vaguer sort of way as he picks it up, fiddles with it, and consequently manages to cut himself. Blood flowing, thoughts now scattered, he hears the Count hiss, perhaps in sympathy at Jonathan's mishap, then ask for his wellbeing.

Or he believes he hears something to that effect. The words flutter on the air and die as he gazes from his bleeding hand to his bloodied possessions, and then to the Count himself. Words are meaningless. Any words at all pale and dullen in his mind when faced with such dark eyes looking into his own. The bedchamber is but a blur of candlelight and mahogany and stone.

It's a simple matter of raising his hand, cut, wounded, throbbing with the pain, towards the Count's waiting tongue. It's easy to graze his lips for the length it takes to blink, then catch the corner of the Count's mouth to make room for himself, the tips of his fingers leading the rest of him inside to probe against yielding flesh and a waiting tongue. Waiting, _finally_ , to lick at the wound, suckle at it where it's bleeding still, as if afraid it shall miss even a single drop.

The pressure has Jonathan moaning, a sound magnified by the solid walls and the silence of the night. The Count works them clean, gets them wet, patient and meticulous. Only when he feels the tightening confines of his trousers, the hold of seams not meant to stretch around more than a proper gentleman should possess in polite company, does Jonathan retract his hand, slip his fingers out, though the clutch of the Count's lips, the fleshy insides of his mouth, call back for him before he's even gone.

Once free, his mind blurs but momentarily. The Count's eyes truly are so... very... dark. His lips are a pinkish hue Jonathan has seldom seen on a man, much less one who seems in the December of his life. They utter a hearty, "I trust you are well."

And Jonathan glances from his still-bleeding hand to the Count's waiting expression, and replies, "Quite. Pardon my own clumsiness."

He turns away only to mouth at the cut on his fingers, barely a scratch, and marvel at the coppery taste, the edges of the wound, the plumpness of what there is of his exposed flesh. This particular pair of trousers, barely worn since the start of his travels, will certainly need to be let out once he has returned to London. He has always suspected his tailor to be a charlatan, and his flaws finally show.

As the Count bids him goodbye, a stray thought catches hold, but it is. Hmm.

Nothing of consequence. Nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


End file.
